Overheard the Truth, Married Her Rival

I parked my car in the corner of the B3 level underground parking garage of the private club.

Vivian said she wanted to talk about "our future" tonight.

The elevator stopped on the third floor. As I was about to press the close button, I heard Vivian's laughter coming from the end of the corridor.

The door to the VIP box wasn't closed properly.

"...Did he really believe it?" The man's voice was tinged with mockery.

"Of course I believe it." Vivian laughed. "Thirteen years of being a bootlicker, I can make him believe anything."

My hand hovered above the close button.

What about the MBA application in London?

"He didn't pay at all." Vivian's voice drew closer. "Ethan, you don't understand. Young masters like Alexander, who've been protected since childhood, are incredibly easy to fool. You make up a 'future for us,' and he'll happily hand over his money."

"Is fifty million enough?"

"That's enough to cover this month's deficit. My dad said we'll figure something out next month; the Grant family's trust fund has plenty anyway."

The sound of glasses clinking could be heard from inside the private room.

I released the doorknob and took a step back.

Only a fool would rush in and give the other side a chance to perform.

The elevator doors closed, and I pressed B3.

Back in my car, I deleted all of Vivian's contact information from my phone. Then I emailed the bank's legal department to cancel the guarantee agreement.

He texted his mother, Eleanor: "I need Aunt Victoria's contact information tomorrow, regarding Catherine."

My phone vibrated.

The mother replied instantly: "So you finally remembered you have a stepsister? That kid's just as difficult to deal with as her mother, are you sure?"

I stared at the screen.

Has Catherine gone back to New York?

I didn't even know that.

"Sure."

I started the engine and threw the Tiffany necklace box from the passenger seat into a trash bag.

For thirteen years, Vivian was all I saw.

That's enough.

Back in my Upper East Side apartment, I didn't turn on the lights; I just sat down in front of the floor-to-ceiling window and opened my laptop.

Pull out Silvercrest Capital's financial statements—Richard Shaw's investment group.

The numbers jumped on the screen. Q2 cash flow surged by 20 million, but it disappeared completely in Q3, and Q4 used short-term loans to cover operating losses.

I took a screenshot for future reference.

He sent a message to his Harvard classmate Marcus: "Help me find out about this company's recent funding sources, the more detailed the better."

The phone vibrated again. It was a message from Victoria's private number, sent by her mother: "Catherine was promoted to Vice President of Blackwood's New York branch three months ago. Think carefully, that child isn't Vivian."

I saved the number.

Then I opened the safe and pulled out the "cooperation agreements" that Vivian had me sign three years ago.

At the time, she said she was helping her father expand his business and needed the Grant family's endorsement.

I signed it without looking at it carefully.

Now, as I read through each page, every single one is a ticking time bomb.

If Silvercrest is indeed a Ponzi scheme, these agreements are enough to drag Grant Investment Bank down with it.

I emailed my family lawyer, James: "Tomorrow morning at nine o'clock, I need you to handle a batch of contracts involving the entire Silvercrest partnership."

The phone screen lit up the moment the email was sent.

Vivian had seventeen missed calls.

I turned off my computer.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Manhattan skyline is ablaze with lights.

Thirteen years ago at her high school prom, Vivian, wearing a white dress, said, "Alexander, you're all I have."

I believed it.

Then he spent thirteen years proving himself to be a joke.

At nine o'clock the next morning, I arrived at the headquarters of Grant Investment Bank on time.

James had already organized the documents and spread them out on the conference table: "Young Master Alexander, if we cut these contracts now, the other party can sue for breach of contract."

"Fine, I'll sue then." I signed each document. "Compared to being dragged down by a Ponzi scheme, the penalty for breach of contract is a small matter."

Are you sure Silvercrest is a Ponzi scheme?

"I'm 90% sure. I'll figure out the remaining 10% within three days."

James paused for a moment, then continued, "And what about Miss Vivian...?"

"There's no 'over there' anymore." I closed the last document. "Notify all departments that the Grant family's cooperation with Silvercrest is completely terminated."

As I left the office, I received a reply from Marcus on my phone: "Found out, Silvercrest has been looking for bridge loans recently, contacting Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley, and UBS, but was rejected by all of them. Be careful."

I replied, "Thanks."

Then I dialed the number Victoria had given me.

After three rings, a young woman's voice answered: "Mr. Grant, I've been waiting for your call for three months."

Catherine.

The voice is more mature than I remember, but the directness remains the same.

"Tomorrow at 3 PM, Boathouse Cafe in Central Park."

"Okay." She paused, " You 've finally seen the truth?"

I hung up the phone.

The sunlight outside the window was blinding.

When I was fourteen, Catherine was pushed into the pool by Vivian, and I helped her retrieve her textbooks.

She gave me a pair of cufflinks.

And then I never looked at her properly again.

Because Vivian said Catherine was seducing me.

I believed it.

The child's eyes were red, and without explaining anything, he turned and left.

idiot.

In the afternoon, I began liquidating the assets.

Call a real estate agent: "That apartment on the Upper East Side is listed for sale at 50 % below market value . It needs to sell within a week."

"Young Master Alexander, that's yours..."

"One week, no bargaining."

Then he sent an encrypted email to a private client manager at a Swiss bank, requesting that $30 million be transferred to a separate overseas account.

The only beneficiaries were my mother and me.

The sound of keyboard typing echoed in the empty apartment.

I suddenly remembered my high school years.

Vivian was being bullied by several girls at school, and I rushed over to stand up for her, injuring the son of one of the girls' parents.

The family threatened to sue.

To resolve the situation, Eleanor, the mother, shouldered all the pressure alone, and ultimately suffered a heart attack during a board meeting.

I stayed by her side at the hospital for three days and three nights.

Her first words upon waking were, "Was it worth it?"

I declared confidently, "Mom, Vivian is my girlfriend, and I have to protect her."

My mother didn't say anything more, she just looked at me with disappointment in her eyes.

Looking back now, one of the girls who "bullied" Vivian was Catherine's friend.

They were telling the truth—Vivian plagiarized someone else's paper.

But I didn't believe it.

Thirteen years.

I spent thirteen years feeding a liar.